Critterature: The Peculiar Plight of the Poor Pitiable Octopus
To the ancient Norse he was Kraken
With a mean inclination,
And the Greeks called him Gorgon
With the same reputation.
But as monster of myths
He's been wrongly miscast,
So I'm here to shed new light
On this poor creature, at last.
An exemplary example
Of his cephalopod race,
With a blob of a body,
The merest trace of a face.
He has eight arms, or legs,
But no fingers or toes,
No waistline or shoulders,
No eyebrows or nose.
He can fly through the water
With the greatest of ease,
And accomplishes it sans
Catapult or trapeze.
When danger confronts him,
He's off in a blink,
And disappears in a cloud
Of stinky black ink.
Octobabies leave home
When the mother gives birth
To be part of the food chain,
Which is no cause for mirth.
Octodads show affection
With indifferent tugs,
But at mealtime they can be
Overly generous with hugs.
The octopus likes his comfort
And prefers to make his home
In more exotically aquatic locales.
It's not unheard of for some,
Who want to see more of the world,
To drift away from their natural venue,
Only sadly to get caught in a fisherman's net
And end up on a sushi bar menu.
At Christmas he's resigned
To passing out gifts,
Though as helper elf his head's too big
To put a hat upon.
And like the squid and the manta,
He can never play Santa
'cause he has no lap
To be sat upon.
Copyright ©
Jim Slaughter
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